


Until The Sun Rises

by yokomya



Series: Let's Make Believe [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5x05, Canon Rewrite, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:24:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yokomya/pseuds/yokomya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Until the sun comes up, it’s just you and me, Stiles.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Until The Sun Rises

There's blood.

So much _blood_.

Stiles stares and he stares and it’s really all he knows how to do now. His eyes are bulging, his throat is tightening up, closing up so much that he isn’t sure how his lungs are getting air. Even if the air is coming in, it’s raspy, shallow, and quick.

Stiles can’t tell exactly what’s happening at first, time is sort of slowing, the world is blurring around the edges. He snaps out of it when a silver liquid shimmers out from Donovan's body, from the _gaping hole_ in his body, the gaping hole that Stiles caused.

Okay, there it is. The adrenaline is kicking in. Stiles knows what’s happening, he knows what happened.

Donovan is dead and it's _his_ fault.

Stiles’ first instinct is to throw up, but his stomach is empty so nothing happens except he sort of chokes on nothing for a few agonizing seconds. When that’s over, he wants to make sure Donovan isn’t dead. It proves to be easier said than done. He can’t really touch the body, he can’t feel for a pulse, he doesn’t know how, his own body won’t move for Christ’s sake.

But it doesn't matter. Stiles is sure that Donovan isn’t moving, _ever again_ , so he opts for his second instinct.

Call the police.

He frantically searches the dark library and finds a phone in the room, drops it at least three times before he can get a grip, and dials 911. The operator speaks and her voice is so loud to him, so _accusing_. Stiles swears he responds, he swears that he does, but the operator doesn’t seem to hear what he’s trying to say and even Stiles can’t hear what he’s trying to say. No words will come out and Stiles wants to scream but his throat stays constricted, like a snake is wrapping around it, and then the operator says they’re dispatching a vehicle.

_Thank God._

He drops the phone off the hook and he’s about to run but his footsteps halt. He spins around to face Donovan again. The lifeless, breathless body that’s void of any emotion. It’s a bad decision because Stiles’ gag reflex kicks in a second time. It’s still useless, just his stomach twisting and flopping, practically rupturing from the pressure. At least that’s how it feels.

After taking a needed breath, Stiles reaches out for the body’s jacket, his hands shaking as he takes his own phone from the pocket. His mind chooses this moment to remember all the horror movies, picturing Donovan screaming or convulsing in response, doing something horrifying. Nothing happens.

It’s frightening and somewhere in Stiles’ chest, something crumbles. This guy, this _kid_ , can barely be older than Stiles, and now he’s dead. Even if he threatened Sheriff Stilinski, even if he had borderline psychotic aggression issues, even if he was in the middle of trying to break Stiles’ legs before he got a pole through the chest, whatever the case, there was no reason he should be dead.

Stiles did this.

Donovan stays still under Stiles’ wavering gaze, mouth slack, eyes bugged out. His voice is like a memory now, the voice that made threats, that made Stiles fear for his life. And now, Stiles can’t pinpoint his own feelings, it's all scrambled inside. Was this an accident? Self defense? Did Donovan deserve to die? 

He finally gathers himself enough to escape the school, dart across the parking lot and jump into his beat up jeep, heart hammering, mouth drying, eyes still wide and unfocused. Does he stay? Does he drive off? What’s he supposed to do now?

With all the time he’s spent running to the crime scenes, using his dad’s equipment to listen in on the murders around town, he should be good at this. He should be able to figure something out, find a way to fix the problem. He should know where to go, know what to do. But he can’t. This time is different.

This time he’s _leaving_ the crime scene. He’s _escaping_.

Stiles can’t though. He can’t just drive off, not without knowing, not without someone finding Donovan. Why is that? Why can’t he put the jeep into reverse and fly off? If they find him at the scene, he’s a prime suspect and that’s going to crush his dad.

Stiles doesn’t move as the sirens resound louder in the distance. The noise pounds through the glass of his jeep and seems to shatter his eardrums, like a million police cars must have been dispatched at once.

It’s just one car that shows up so Stiles quickly turns the headlights off and leans back into the darkness of the driver's seat. He’s breathing so heavily, he thinks the officer might hear him, even from this incredible distance. The policeman exits the vehicle and looks in Stiles’ direction for a heart stopping moment but it doesn’t take long for him to turn around and enter the school, leaving Stiles in the seclusion of the night.

This is the part where Stiles is supposed to wake up and go to school. This is the part where he wakes up and he goes downstairs and eats breakfast with his dad. This is the part where he wakes up and he calls Scott and tells him about this ridiculous night terror, listens to Scott’s voice to calm down, and then goes back to sleep. That’s all this is, right?

Stiles sucks in more oxygen and holds it as the cop comes out of the school and goes straight to the car. If only Stiles had werewolf vision or hearing, it would make this easier. He waits for the sirens to blare, waits for the officer to see him and snatch him out of the jeep, cuff his wrists, and the whole town will know what he did. His friends, his dad, _everyone_.

An idea comes to him and Stiles channels in on the policeman’s call. He hears the conversation loud and clear. The officer didn’t find anybody in the school. That means no body. That means Donovan is gone. The officer comes to the conclusion that the call must have been a prank and drives off.

When the car is out of sight, that’s Stiles’ cue to hop out and check. He enters the room where Donovan’s body should be. His shoes skid on the smooth floor and his eyes search frantically. The officer was right. There’s nothing, no silvery liquid, no sticky blood on the floor. Donovan is gone.

Stiles leaves again and races home this time, going way over the speed limit. It probably isn’t a good idea because now is the worst time in his life to get pulled over by a cop. He doesn't think about that and drives like a madman until he’s home, until he’s falling out of the jeep and running upstairs to his room, slamming the door, and catching every needed breath in the world.

The room whirls around him, the floor moves under him, but he manages to reach his bed. Plenty of times he’s been in this state, sitting on his bed, stuck in the middle of his never ending thoughts. Though it’s never been this bad, except maybe when the nogitsune took over. At least he had the comfort of blaming the fox back then.

Now he’s waiting for a panic attack or vomit or tears, for anything, but it’s only his lungs burning and his body tingling due to the shock. 

Stiles has no idea how to fix this.

His phone vibrates and it startles him back to the real world. He touches the screen to find Malia calling. He should answer, should tell her what he did, at least let her know everything is okay. Even though it’s a complete and total lie, he has to answer the phone. In the end, he can’t bring himself to do it. The phone finishes vibrating and then her name disappears and he’s left alone like before.

Stiles waits for a tap on the door or another call, for anything to wake him up again from the thoughts that are crawling back up. That doesn’t happen.

It’s like nobody knows what he did, nobody in the world, and he’s left to decide all on his own what to do about it. He can stay silent or he can blab or he can think some more.

Stiles digs his fingernails into the mattress and groans. It’s not only the murder that hurts, it’s the pain in his shoulder. It was from when Donovan attacked earlier, and Stiles is just now picking up on how much his shoulder aches. He winces and scratches where it hurts mindlessely, too busy thinking about what’s in store for him and the pack and the dread doctors and all the bad things lurking in the near future. It’s _suffocating_.

In an effort to release some kind of anxiety, Stiles crawls to the edge of his bed and lays down on his back, grips the pillow and closes his eyes. He listens to the nothingness, tries to picture nothing, wants it all to go away and _be_ nothing. He wants to forget about the expression Donovan made when Stiles looked at him and he wants to clear away the scent of decaying flesh, the sound of Donovan's last breath, the rattle of the pins that fell and impaled him.

Automatically, Stiles finds the strength to sit up and unlocks the screen of his phone. He types out a number without using his contacts because he has it memorized.

The dial button is bright green, lit up, ready to be pressed, and Stiles hesitates for a second. What if Scott doesn’t answer? What if he listens but he doesn’t understand? How do you begin to tell your best friend that you killed someone?

Stiles taps the button but as soon as the phone starts dialing, he regrets it. The part of him that’s sane right now, the tiny part fighting the panic, it stops him from hanging up. He waits and waits, wondering how it was even possible that a phone could ring this long, and then it stops ringing.

“Stiles?”

It’s Scott on the line. That’s his voice coming out of the speaker. Stiles isn’t feeling hopeless and nervous the way he did with the emergency operator. This time he’s frozen because he doesn’t know where to start.

“Stiles? Hello?”

Scott should sound happy but he’s all concern on the other end and that really sucks. They could never have a lighthearted conversation, never an ordinary one. A call usually meant there was a problem or danger.

“Hey, Scott,” Stiles answers, as stoic as he can get out. He sucks in and bites his thumb, trying to picture Scott’s expression.

“What’s happening? Are you okay?” Scott asks, like it’s the natural reaction. 

How to answer that question? Stiles blinks and shakes his head so he can come back before he finds his voice.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he replies, not sounding that way in the slightest. Before Scott can rebuttal that, he goes on with, “Are you? Are _you_ okay?”

“Stiles,” Scott repeats, more serious, “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

And that’s why Stiles should have ended the call, shouldn’t have called in the first place. He can lie, he can tell a really damn good lie, but lying to Scott was practically taboo. He just wanted to hear Scott’s voice, that was really the gist of it, but Scott had to ask what happened and make him feel even guiltier.

“I wanted to talk to you,” Stiles responds, scraping his sneaker against the carpet, slumping, dropping his hand from his mouth. It’s the closest to the truth he can muster right now and he prays that Scott can’t hear everything else he’s trying not to say.

_I needed to hear your voice._

He can’t say that to Scott, it would overstep some kind of boundary. He knows that Scott won’t take it the wrong way, but he still keeps it to himself. It’s pathetic, the extent of how much he depends on Scott.

“I’m coming over,” Scott blurts out and Stiles can hear shuffling. He knows Scott isn’t bluffing so he quickly sits up straighter, heart thumping.

“No, no, wait,” Stiles gulps, “I had a dream, a bad dream, so I called you. That’s all.”

Scott is quiet and then sighs, whether in relief or frustration, Stiles isn't sure.

"What happened in the dream?”

Stiles waves his hand out in a desperate need for a lie, one that just isn’t popping up. His eyes search the room for an answer but he’s drawing a blank.

“Stiles?”

“I’m here,” Stiles drawls. “And I- Well in the dream, I just- it’s kind of foggy.”

“Is it the one where Peter attacks Lydia?” Scott asks carefully, like he doesn’t want to trigger anything but he still wants to help.

And he doesn’t mention that Peter actually kills Lydia in Stiles’ dream, he doesn’t say that part. Scott would never say that so harshly. He’s always treating Stiles like he’s fragile during these late night calls.

“No,” Stiles replies on impulse. He doesn’t know why, he should say yes, make this easier. That way Scott can assume it's one of his reoccurring night terrors and they can move on. He can’t bring himself to do it.

“The one with Derek at the pool?” 

“No,” Stiles swallows.

In that dream, Stiles is keeping Derek afloat at the pool, the memory of when the Kanima stalked them. Unlike real events, in the dream, Stiles drops Derek to retrieve the phone at the poolside, but he doesn’t make it back to Derek in time.

“The one with Tracey and Malia?” Scott asks, trying unusually hard to get something out of Stiles.

That's the one where Stiles finds Malia dead, her corpse a mess by Tracey’s, bloody, mangled, just as still as Donovan was an hour ago.

“No, it's not that,” Stiles gets out stiffly. He should hang up now, he should. He can’t tell Scott what he did but he can’t lie so he has no choice but to end this conversation.

“It’s okay, Stiles, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

That just about tears Stiles up more than he already was. He bites into his fist and all the shock and horror of the night is catching up again, breaking down his walls, all because Scott was reassuring him that he didn’t have to open up yet.

“I’ll be right here and you can hang up or you can stay on the line but you don’t have to say anything,” Scott continues, “Okay, Stiles?”

And even though this isn’t a night terror, this isn’t one of their typical late night calls, Scott is comforting him just the same. It’s like that sometimes. Stiles has a bad dream and calls Scott and they stay on the line talking. Sometimes they don’t talk. Sometimes Stiles falls back asleep and sometimes Scott comes over. It didn't matter to Stiles because Scott’s tactics never failed to calm him down and make him feel like things would be okay.

But this isn’t a night terror,

This isn’t his friends dying in his dreams.

This is real, this is someone that Stiles killed. This is his fault. He doesn’t deserve to be consoled, not in the slightest.

Despite that, Stiles can feel his chest swelling and his voice comes out hoarse when he speaks.

“I might need you, Scotty.”

He thinks he’s crying but he’s not. His eyes are starting to hurt though. He swallows thickly and scratches at the pain in his shoulder again, waiting with baited breath for what Scott would say. Stiles crossed the line, he said it, he let out how he felt.

“Well then,” Scott answers gently, “Are you going to let me in? It’s freezing out here.”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate to drop the phone and rush downstairs. He swings the front door open, revealing Scott clad in a denim jacket, no motorcycle in the driveway.

“You ran?” Stiles breaks out in disbelief. He feels more out of breath than Scott looks.

“My bike’s getting fixed up and you know, _werewolf_ ,” Scott shrugs.

Stiles is leaning in the doorway, gaping like an idiot, until he has enough brainpower to move aside and let Scott in. He scratches the end of his nose, gets nervous when Scott shuts the door with a click and turns to him. Silence falls.

_Make Scott understand. Say it, just say it all. He won’t hate you. He won’t look at you like you’re a criminal, like you’re a monster, he won’t._

It’s getting more and more difficult to spill the truth because the pleasantries are out of the way and Scott is patiently waiting for Stiles to talk or invite him upstairs, something to alleviate the atmosphere. The embarrassment of saying that he needed Scott out loud was also weighing on the tension right now.

“You didn’t have to come, the dream wasn’t that b-”

“It was bad,” Scott cuts off, “I know it was bad.”

“I’m perfectly fine now,” Stiles debates, waving his arms, “See?”

“No, you’re _not_."

Stiles wonders how noticeable it is that he’s been going out of his freaking mind. He probably looks like he’s been to hell. Which he has. There’s also the question of whether Scott can smell Donovan on him, whether he can hear the stutter of Stiles’ increasing heart rate.

If he's going to play on this night terror facade, he has to make it real. Normally, when Scott comes over, if the nightmare is bad enough, he stays the night, sleeps next to Stiles, and makes it easier for him to calm down. Stiles can't do that right now. He can't sleep next to Scott, not with lingering thoughts of the library. But he also doesn't have the gall to talk about it yet.

“Okay," Stiles sighs, knowing he's already lost, "I _don’t_ want to go back to sleep."

“Yeah, that's totally okay,” Scott assures, “So, what _do_ you want to do?”

In other words, _how can I help_?

“I don’t know, really,” Stiles breathes out.

_You can’t help with this one._

“Okay,” Scott nods slowly, “You want to watch a movie? Play some games? Go out for a bit?”

Stiles blinks back at Scott and wonders if that’s the best idea. He just murdered Donovan, whose body was _missing_. It should be a priority to give that information to Scott. They could be in seriously more danger than they thought. He needs to tell him that.

But for a selfish minute, Stiles forgets about the pack and drinks in _go out_. It’s been ages since he spent time with Scott, away from the others. It’s been a lifetime since they did something besides worry about possessions, monsters, hunters, and every other imaginable evil in existence.

The dread doctors are out there, hiding, ready to do God knows what to them. Donovan could still be out there, even if the possibility is almost zero. Stiles _did_ watch him die after all. He’s the one who _killed_ him.

Stiles inhales dryly and blinks rapidly, rubbing his shoulder. The panic is returning.

“You okay?” Scott asks, moving closer. “Stiles?”

Stiles nods, eyes on the floor. He has to hurry and make a decision before everything falls apart.

“I want to go out.”

“Okay but are you su-”

“I want to,” Stiles reiterates, “Alright?”

Scott doesn’t look convinced but he opens the front door anyways. That's one awesome thing about Scott, he doesn't need to be told twice when it came to what a member of his pack needed.

Stiles will tell him, he will. He just needs time.

 

So time passed. Very, very slowly. 

And Donovan is never brought up.

It’s not as if Stiles made an internal decision to not tell Scott about Donovan, it’s just that with each passing second, the words became harder and harder to get out.

The night went on and Stiles ended up lost in Scott’s laughter. He couldn’t map out exactly how long it’s been since they left the house but it started with movie hopping for a few hours, moved on to the arcade, and ended with them sitting in a booth at the back of an empty cafe. 

Scott talked the most out of the two of them, not just to keep Stiles entertained, but to get his mind off the supposed nightmare. In a way, Stiles hates that. He knows that Scott isn’t entirely sure that the ‘bad dream’ was, well, a bad dream. It kills Stiles.

They’re both eating and it’s probably two in the morning right now but the weird thing is that neither of them are tired. Not only is the sugar from the ice cream and soda keeping them wired, but since they stepped out of Stiles' house, they've been high on the night. Enjoying each other's company, joking around, having actual fun as if there weren't monsters looming in the shadows.

They’re probably super loud and annoying to the waitress at the front of the cafe because she checks on them every now and then, like she thinks they might be on something. It doesn't take long for Stiles to pick up on that she's mostly checking on Scott. When she leaves for the fifth time, Stiles shovels a scoop of strawberry ice cream into his mouth.

“You know, she’s hitting on you,” he says, mouth full.

Scott sips on his soda and his eyebrows go up.

“What? No way.”

“You’re completely oblivious,” Stiles snorts, head shaking. He finishes swallowing and catches Scott spacing out. “Hey, you’re not with Kira anymore, don’t look so glum.”

"Glad to know you`re so sympathetic,” Scott grumbles, eyes rolling.

Stiles licks his spoon and puts it back in the bowl. His stomach flops.

“Look, I just meant- You shouldn’t feel guilty about talking to other girls.”

"Don't you?" Scott wonders, "You and Malia ended things, not that long ago."

"What was that about sympathy?," Stiles laughs, "Nah, it's fine. It was mutual."

Scott doesn't have anything to add to that so he sips more soda. Stiles feels an energy pass between them, like he has a buzz from simply hanging out with Scott. It's strange and nice and confusing. 

"Thanks for taking me out," Stiles mumbles, chewing the end of his straw, attempting not to look flushed. He knows the comfort and intimacy of this thing they have is more than he could ask for. Scott is his best friend in the world, someone he can find happiness with, even in the darkest of moments.

The way Scott reacts to that, the way he looks up at him, has Stiles forgetting about why they were here in the first place. It feels as if Scott is looking right into his soul and that’s both nerve wracking and beautiful. Nobody looks at Stiles with that much consideration. It's unfair not to do the same.

“Scott,” Stiles stutters, straw falling from his mouth, “I have to tell you something.”

Scott nods and folds his hands in his lap. He's patient, waits for whatever Stiles needs to say. He probably figured out it wasn’t a night terror from the start and knows that Stiles is about to tell the truth.

When Stiles gazes back at Scott, he’s pulled into earlier moments, former gazes. Times of finding solace in each other without speaking, just looking. Times of all hope being lost, of their world on the brink of disaster, and they somehow remained optimistic just by meeting eyes.

Usually, they try to figure the problem out together, but right now, Stiles is in pieces so Scott watches him and silently conveys that things are going to be okay.

Stiles curses under his breath and drops his head. He can’t even look Scott in the face. He can't say it, it’s too hard. He grasps the spoon in his bowl and twirls it, tries to distract himself. It’s pointless.

“Why can't I just-?” his voice falls to the back of his throat.

It’s never been hard to talk about death or murder, never for Stiles. He's even advocated it, on multiple occasions. Maybe that’s one of the reasons the words won't come out. He’s always advised disposing of other people, people that Scott ended up rescuing, because Scott chooses the harder option. The noble option.

And Stiles killed someone. He went against that code.

It was self defense, Stiles wants to believe that. It's his only hope that Scott won’t mistrust him forever. What he did to Donovan wasn't on purpose, it wasn't intentional. Stiles was running for his life. He was _scared_. 

“Come on,” Scott offers gently. It surprises Stiles when he stands up, leaves money on the table and before Stiles has a chance to question what they were doing, he drags Stiles out of the cafe. The waitress shouts goodbye but Scott doesn't pay any attention.

Scott doesn't release his hold on Stiles' arm until they're many blocks down the street, back at the park. They're greeted by Californian street lamps and grass and that's it. Nobody’s around. Of course not, it's the dead of night. It’s comforting as much as it's crushing Stiles to know that nobody but Scott is going to hear what he did.

“Is what you have to tell me related to the dread doctors, Stiles?” Scott asks suddenly, hand falling from his sleeve. He doesn't turn around so he doesn't see the shock on Stiles' face.

Leave it to Scott. He can see through Stiles like he’s transparent. When Scott glances back for an answer, Stiles coughs and nods weakly before turning his attention to the moon.

“Are we in more danger than before?” Scott inquires, almost an afterthought.

Stiles ponders and bites his lip. He listens to the soft sounds of the sleeping city around them and the wind against the greenery of the park. His pulse is picking up.

“Not exactly."

Then he meets Scott’s eyes again and waits for this trip to turn business. Every moment of peace breaks for them eventually, turns into a supernatural meeting. This night is going to do the same. 

“Okay," Scott murmurs, "How about you tell me when the sun comes up."

And he’s not joking.

Stiles watches him flop down, onto the clean cut grass and pat the space next to where he’s sitting. It's strange, it makes no sense. Stiles wonders why Scott doesn’t want to know now, why he’s holding this conversation for later. Once his brain catches up, he eases down by Scott and folds his arms over his knees. What was Scott thinking? 

“It’s pretty important, you know,” Stiles exhales, studying him. Scott doesn’t look like he doubts that but rather than ask, he lays back in the grass, eyes flickering to the sky.

“When the sun comes up, Stiles.”

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, completely confused.

They don’t speak for a little while and Stiles can’t take it. He doesn’t understand this. Scott knows Stiles did something, knows it involves the pack, knows it’s a bad thing. He has to know that. So, why is he waiting? What's stopping him?

“Scotty, why-”

“You’re hurting,” Scott interrupts and inhales. It's almost shaky and Stiles can see that this isn't easy for him. "Whatever it is you're hiding, it's hurting you, isn't it?"

Stiles is baffled. He doesn’t have a coherent response to offer but he doesn’t have to because Scott speaks up again.

“Whatever happened, Stiles, whatever it was, I trust you.”

“That’s-” Stiles stops. He can’t continue. His throat gets that tight feeling once more, his fingers start to numb, and he can’t say anything else. Scott senses the change and turns his body so they’re face to face.

“Let’s pretend that there are no dread doctors” he says, “And that we don’t have to figure out this town’s fate by ourselves."

Stiles leans back on his palms and digs his shoe into the lawn as Scott goes on.

"We’ll be two best friends hanging out at the park- like we would be if we got wasted at some senior party or something. We would have stumbled out here after the party, laughing our asses off and I mean, if I _could_ get wasted, there's no doubt you and me would have found ourselves in some park, middle of the night, right? If things were normal?" He pauses and smiles, "So let's pretend everything is normal.”

Scott turns his face away and watches the dark sky intently.

“Until the sun comes up, it’s just you and me, Stiles.”

It’s so simple, that’s how Scott makes it sound. Such an easy plan. Forget about the dread doctors, the horror, the messed up world they lived in. Be _normal_.

Suddenly Stiles doesn’t feel his lungs collapsing or his wrists shaking and his body doesn’t feel as cold. He pulls his knees up closer to himself and watches Scott, really looks at him.

When the sun is in the sky, he'll tell Scott about Donovan. That could tear up their friendship, it could ruin it. Ignoring the world right now is a bad idea, it's stupid, it's selfish. That’s what Stiles should think. He brushes his knuckles across his lips and his eyelids feel heavy.

He can't help but think it’s the best plan Scott’s ever came up with.

A breather, just for them. They deserved a break, a few hours of make believe. It wouldn’t solve anything, wouldn’t bring anyone back to life, but they needed it. They're  _human_.

Stiles inches closer to Scott and he’s hesitant in the way he moves. But as Scott glances at him again, brown eyes reassuring, kind, and open, all hesitation dissolves and Stiles presses their arms together, pushes his sneaker next to Scott’s, and dips his head down.

He peers up anxiously but Scott seems fine with this arrangement. He even nudges Stiles, indicates that it's okay, so Stiles takes that chance and carefully leans his head into Scott's shoulder. It should feel awkward but it doesn't. They _are_ supposed to be drunk after all so they can blame the alcohol for the affection.

Stiles closes his eyes and unwinds. His thoughts drift away from the incident at the school and instead go to the rest of the night. The pain in his shoulder has subsided for now and so has the constriction of his chest. It was thanks to Scott, for knowing how to heal Stiles, for using the right words and actions to take away his heartache.

This moment can't last, Stiles realizes that. Soon, the sun will peek above the horizon to flood light over the city.

For now, Stiles pretends that it won't. He pretends that he doesn't have someone's blood on his hands and pretends that Scott's going to stay by his side all night. He pretends that this moment isn't going to fade away, that there _will_ be more like this.

The warmth radiating from Scott and the way his eyes linger on Stiles is enough for now. How their hands are almost touching until they do touch and neither make a move to pull back, it's enough for Stiles to forget the pain. It's enough.

They sit in a relaxed silence, Scott listening to Stiles’ heartbeat, Stiles listening to Scott’s even breathing and it clicks for Stiles.

This closeness won’t be over when the sun comes up.

When he has to explains about Donovan, it won't pull them apart. Scott will listen and understand, he’ll help Stiles through the pain. The way he does with his night terrors and the way he’s doing right now, without even trying. They'll figure out how to deal with it, how to go on.

Scott will stay with Stiles all night, until the sun rises, until he hears his story.

And after that, he’s not going anywhere.


End file.
